Early on, during our relationship contract negotiations, A. and I came to the following agreement:
I kill the spiders.
He kills the mice.
So, the other night when we were watching Rachel Getting Married (which was really lame, but that's another story) and a mouse scurried across the foyer floor, A. began fulfilling his duties to track and destroy said mouse.
I politely mounted my observation deck on top of the foot stool and then later the stair case.
For the next
hour and half, I watched him chase little mouse through the coat closet and play room.
He finally was able to coax little mouse into a container and then carry him down the street for his release into freedom.
A couple of disclaimers here:
- While I HATE mice, I did not want to see it smashed by a broom or baseball bat (yes, both of which were used during the battle royale)
- The poor little mouse actually surrendered more or less after being whacked in the head several hundred times, he just kind of stood up against the wall and looked A. in the eyes as if to say, "Look dude, you people are nuts, you've got Crazy over there who has been squealing for nearly 2 hours, you're hitting me, let's just call a truce and how about you get me the heck out of this place."
Surprisingly, neither of the kids woke up during the fiasco.
However, the next day when they came down the stairs to discover every pair of shoes from the front closet and every single toy had been tossed from the front of the house to the back of the house, they immediately announced that they had not made the mess nor would they be responsible for cleaning it up.
After telling them what had happened, Mooka just looked at me in complete disgust. She then asked if it was a girl mouse or a boy mouse. I told her there was really no way of knowing. She then asked (with a certain how-did-you-get-to-be-a-mom tone)...
"Well did it have eye lashes or not? The girls have eye lashes."
Of course, how could I have not thought to look for eye lashes.
She must have learned that in Disney Biology 101.